


Ducks

by xylodemon



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-25
Updated: 2005-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-29 06:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Aziraphale feeds the ducks and Crowley is vaguely nervous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ducks

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://miscellanny.livejournal.com/profile)[**miscellanny**](http://miscellanny.livejournal.com/), who needed a distraction.

Aziraphale was feeding the ducks with the sort of unwavering, single-minded sense of purpose usually reserved for Japanese business men and Mormon missionaries. Pinch. Tear. Toss. Pinch. Tear. Toss. His rhythm was perfect, if a bit too quick. He was feeding the ducks faster than they were eating. Precise chunks of Russian Rye were forming into an impressive tower just at the edge of the pond, and watching Aziraphale was making Crowley nervous.

"Angel," Crowley said.

"Hmmm?" Pinch. Tear. Toss. The tower was beginning to resemble the beer-bottle model of Buckingham Palace Crowley had once seen*.

"You might want to pace yourself," Crowley muttered.

"What?" Aziraphale asked. "Oh." Every duck in the park was waddling cheerfully around his monument. He offered Crowley a sheepish smile. "I didn't realise."

"I see that," Crowley said. The ducks had barely made a dent in the bread, but some stragglers, unable to get close to the prize, were starting to congregate at Aziraphale's feet. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Aziraphale replied quickly. The bread was clutched close to his chest, and crumbs were sprinkled across the front of his cardigan. His fingers, suddenly at loose ends, fiddled with the ragged heel of the loaf.

"Cruelty to animals, and a lie, in the same day, and it's not even noon," Crowley commented. "I need to mark this day on my calendar."

"You don't have a calendar," Aziraphale noted.

"For this, I'd buy one," Crowley countered. "What is it, then?"

"Do you think we did the right thing?"

Crowley sighed. They'd had this conversation at least three times this week. "Of course we did."

"How can you be sure?" Aziraphale asked. A duck pecked irritably at his foot. Crowley lowered his sunglasses a bit and gave it what passed for the evil-eye topside. "I know we've not been contacted by our sides, but that doesn't mean--"

"We did," Crowley said firmly. "If we hadn't, neither of us would be here."

Aziraphale gave him a curious look, the kind of look he usually gave signed first-editions with intact spines. Crowley found it a little alarming to be on the receiving end of it.

"You're right, I suppose," Aziraphale said finally.

"Really must get that calendar," Crowley muttered.

\--

* Beeringham Palace, as it was called, was a popular attraction at John's Chips n' Things, until it toppled over onto a group of tourists, resulting in three glass cuts, four twisted ankles, and an elderly teetotal lady drenched in stale lager. To this day, Crowley maintained he'd not been the cause.


End file.
